Hi, Keogh the cat fans...

Big news. They're planning to open a trout fishery in my village.

That should send the cost of cat-flaps soaring: the one thing this neighbourhood has been missing is a top-class eatery.

I think it'll attract a lot more diners than the bins at the back of Mr Chan's takeaway. And sometimes you hadn't got a clue what you were eating.

Take those prawn balls, for example. What a con - prawns don't have any.

Mind you, the same goes for most of the Toms on our block.

We had it rough, me, mum and my five brothers and sisters.

Mum was abandoned by her owner five times, but managed to find her way back. Once, the owner took her so far away he got lost.

Each night the deluded humans scour the garden and adjoining countryside for the kitten lodger Kightly.

If she fails to come when they call, they rattle her nibbles. Like a fool, she comes, is picked up and carried inside the house.

"Does she do anything else?" drawled Simon Cowell, his voice edged with sarcasm.

"Well," spluttered Mike, colouring and shuffling uncomfotably on the spot, "she can lick her own backside, but I'm not sure she'll do it on command."

Amanda gave a horrified glance and buried her head in her hands.

Two bloody minutes I cuffed a ball, with both paws I might add, around that stage for those Britain's Got Talent judges.

Were they impressed? Were they hell as like.

Call me eccentric, but with the warm weather here I've started staying indoors at night.

Real cats stay out during winter. Hot nights are for tourists.

I've been out, with my mate Ginger, in blizzards. "What's that chinking noise?" I asked him during one particularly cold evening.

I'm in the dog, or should that be cat, house.

The humans were burgled while I was in the property and they're a bit miffed I didn't do anything. Actually, I did. I rubbed against his leg in an intimidated way.

He was so frightened, he stroked me...repeatedly.

I even miaowed, but when he didn't put any food in my dish, I went back to the sofa and fell asleep.

He may have taken more from the house than he realised, however. I've got a bad case of fleas.

So why not a day for the patron saint of cats, St Gertrude?

I mean, the Welsh, Scottish, Irish and English have got one.

"How would you mark it?" Felix over the road asked.

Same as I mark everything else - just cock my leg up.

Fascinating woman, Gertrude.

She didn't keep cats, but water from her well and the bread she baked repelled rats, making us moggies redundant.

Is that the most cat-friendly person they could find?

They may as well have made a dog - St Bernard - our patron saint.

My grand-dad slayed a dragon...sorry, my mistake, a draylon - a draylon curtain by climbing up it. Not so much slayed it as clawed it, really.

He'd make a good patron saint.

St Cinders...it's got a certain ring to it.

The biggest thing I've tried to slay is a pheasant. Would've succeeded, too, if it wasn't for the gundogs chasing it.

"But how would we celebrate the day?" asked Felix.

I think it should be a day off. Spend the time just sleeping and eating.

"We sleep 18 hours as it is," she pointed out. "Anymore and we'd end up with cat-basket sores."

She's got a point. Cats don't have saints, they don't even have a God, I think. And if there's a heaven, where do dead mice go?

"I dunno," argued Felix, "I used to share my house with a cat called Jesus.

"Every time he came indoors, the humans would shout: 'Jesus - he's brought another mouse in with him'."

Just heard that cats were worshipped in Ancient Egypt because they brought 'fertility to the fields of suppliant farmers'.

I've just brought a little fertility to our rose bush. And the humans better be a little more suppliant than last time.

See you here on Sunday afternoon with my main blog of the week!

I'm often asked, are cats better than humans.

I think we are, for the following reasons:

* Cats never 'miss' the litter tray.

* You can de-claw a cat, but try getting a man to trim his toenails.

* You never have to spend time with your cat's mother.

* You've got a lot more of a chance of taming a cat.

Last night the human lodgers placed a Wolverhampton Wanderers hat on my head, a rosette round my neck and took pictures of me.

One of those pictures is now the first thing that greets anyone using their computer.

This kind of humiliation is too much and clearly a matter for the RSPCA - and not just because I'm a Villa fan.

I only hope a few of my fleas found the scarf they draped round me a suitable habitat.

If so, there could be quite a few unwanted visitors at Molineux - and I'm not talking about the away supporters.

It could have been worse.

Many, many years ago, according to the human lodgers, someone took a live piglet onto the terraces, which proves the pies were just as ropy in those distant times.

The football fever that has gripped my house has become annoying. It's dangerous, too.

After a recent game against Birmingham, Mike said he wanted to kick the cat. As I was the only moggie about, I naturally feared the worst.

It was just bravado, though, and he kicked the fridge, instead. That's a wise move - fridges are harder, but they don't scratch - or cough-up ice cubes.

I don't even understand football. They chase after a ball and when they catch it, they don't bite the thing. You'd think they would at least bury it.

That would really show us how good Ronaldo is: it's one thing kicking a ball, quite another to sniff it out first.

Why Sky haven't pumped millions of pounds into mouse-chasing is beyond me.

Now that's a REAL sport - and rodents can't stray offside, even if there lives depend on it, which they often do.

Round these parts, I'm known as the Wayne Rooney of the mouse-stalking world: skilled, a deadly finisher, but bad tempered, with a tendency to spit.

However, when it comes to stalking rodents, I think I'm more like the former German legend...Rudi Vole-r.